Lost in Translation
by chezchuckles
Summary: Sometimes the words just get in the way. A co-authored story by Sandiane Carter and chezchuckles.
1. Chapter 1

**French Heat**

by **Sandiane Carter** and **chezchuckles**

* * *

><p>Richard Castle blinks hard. Scrubs his hands over his face. Looks again.<p>

Kate Beckett. Wearing *that* and-

He gulps, glued to his desk chair, one finger trembling against the blotter.

"Kate?"

She smiles mysteriously, her green eyes glittering with mischief.

Oh. Oh, this isn't good.

When Kate leans forward a little, the shirt she's wearing - *his* shirt, the shirt he bought on the internet three days ago, that says "I'm ALT of control" (he thought the computer keys were a pretty clever wink to his own occupation) - stretches on her chest, and whatever air was left in his lungs whooshes out.

She has to be wearing a bra. She has to. Right?

"Monsieur Castle," she says, her voice sultry and caressing, the French accent making it the very epitome of sexy. "Saviez-vous que je suis l'une de vos plus fidèles lectrices?"

She's electric?

Castle's heart pounds so hard that his body pulses with it, the contoured comfort of the office chair absorbing each beat.

She's electric. Oh God, she is.

"Kate. What are you doing?"

_In my shirt._

He leaves it unspoken, but ohhh...he can see the white moon of her thigh as she saunters forward, the darkness in her eye like the night sky, her iris a star.

"Et vos livres," she whispers, the words tingling on his skin like nimble little fingers, driving him wild with excitement and incomprehension. "Vos livres m'ont touchée. Ils m'ont apporté...Une certaine paix," she continues, her hand coming up to rest on her heart, giving him a dark, intense look that pulls at him, messes with things inside his chest.

No, no, no. This is *not* a good time to be clueless. What was that? Her heart? He has no idea. Books? Something about books, right? Or cats? Libra. Libras are cats?

He'll make up his own translation: His books have touched her heart. And now she's wearing his shirt. Because. . .because. . .because she's hotter than CatWoman and oh _Kate_. . .

He has no idea. She watches him, expecting something from him, an answer, a reply to her heartfelt sentiment, but his brain is this terrible, awful blank rising up before him. Worse than any writer's block.

"I'm a little lost," he squeaks out, wincing at the sound of his voice.

She smiles then, a tender, slightly amused smile that dries his throat completely - worse than walking in the desert for a couple hours. (He did that once, a safari in Africa, and with a bottle of water it was much more manageable than those sexy, foreign words falling from Kate Beckett's lips. Kate Beckett's red, gorgeous lips).

"Ce n'est pas grave," she says, so gentle that his hand comes up of its own accord, desperate for her. She tilts her head a little, the smile lingering on her face, dark locks of hair brushing her shoulder, the fabric of *his* shirt. "Peut-être que maintenant, c'est mon tour de toucher."

Hell yes, he wants to touch her.

He rocks up to his feet, banging his knees against the underside of his desk, his eyes steady on hers. That's what 'touche' means right? Touch. In fencing, it's a hit by the opponent's blade. A hit. A touch.

Castle is around the desk before he can even take a deep breath, standing trembling in front of her with both hands raised, in supplication or avarice he doesn't know.

"Can I touch you?" he whispers, and does it anyway, because he's always found that it's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

Her sides tremble with contained laughter when he claims her, palms splayed, wanting nothing more than the material of the shirt gone. And yet it's soft under his fingers, so soft he can close his eyes and imagine it's her skin, almost. Almost.

A delighted sound escapes her, not quite a laugh, not quite a giggle, but something in between. Beautiful, intoxicating. Like her.

"Monsieur Castle," she says, and oh, he cannot get enough of the way those words sound in her mouth, rich and meaningful, so tasty. "Vous vous avancez. J'ai dit que c'était mon tour, pas le vôtre."

Her hands, fresh and cool, delicious, cover his, knock his away. Castle looks up at her, disappointed and uncertain.

Oh, jeez. What is she doing to him? Why is she doing this?

"Okay. . ." he singsongs, letting out a long breath. "No touching."

He licks his dry lips and swallows hard in the face of her amusement, tries to summon up some meaning from the delicious slide of sounds, but it's already gone, already _vous_ and whatever other things sound French, and if he could get her to just say _oui_. . .

He knows that one.

Yes.

But she *is* wearing his shirt. And *only* his shirt, damn it, so that has to be an invitation. He knows this much. Body language is a language after all, a language he doesn't need slippery sounds for, just the slide of his hand up the outside of her thigh and under the hem-

No touching.

Castle crowds closer instead, letting her awareness of his body, of the breadth of his shoulders and the length of his legs practically straddling hers, letting the close confines of his body say all the things that need to be said.

"At least, let me kiss you."

Her eyes are bright, luminous with unbridled enjoyment and something else too, something he's afraid to misinterpret. And there's that smile again, the one that looks like she's laughing at him. Castle can't bring himself to be mad.

Not when her hands have just come up to his shoulders, her graceful fingers playing with the collar of his shirt, a butterfly touch against his neck.

He struggles to keep his eyes open, struggles not to give in to her light, pleasurable touch. He feels an urge to purr and stretch his neck, to wordlessly ask for more. Is that the deal? He can't touch, but she can? Because he'll take it. No conditions.

"M'embrasser, Castle?" She teases lightly (at least he assumes it's teasing. No, he knows it is. He's heard that nuance in her voice enough times to be perfectly familiar with it). "Ca me paraît un projet bien... ambitieux. Vous pensez tenir le coup?"

Is this all he gets? Just the feathery touch of her fingers, the tease of her voice, without any understanding?

The curl of her lips. The curl of her lips and now her elbows resting against his ribs as she steps in closer, her amusement, her dark and dangerous amusement glowing even from her skin.

"Mercy," he breathes, realizing hazily that it sounds like 'thank you' in French, but it's not gratitude, not at all, it's depesration. He clenches his fists at his side, needing to touch if he can't use words, needing to show her-

Kate lifts up on her toes and leans in, her lips slightly parted, her eyes focused on him, her hands curled on his shoulders for balance. He feels the brush of that sexy, foreign mouth against his ear, tickling, hears the rush of a windstorm that he realizes is his own breathing, clamorous and rattling.

How unmanly, to be so undone at a touch.

"Pitié, Castle?" She breathes in his ear, laughing, or very close. If her touch undoes him, her voice...Ah, he doesn't even have words for what it does to him, the way it infiltrates into his chest, winds around his heart, a deadly snake closing in on its prey.

He sways, has to put his hands back on her waist, catch himself. Kate doesn't push him away this time - is he allowed to do this, or is she simply too busy to notice? Her lips press on his earlobe, teeth coming out to scratch his skin, and he lets out a shuddering sigh, his eyelids squeezed tight now.

"C'est tout ce que tu veux, ma pitié?" She whispers, taunts really, and oh, those sexy words that he can't understand..."Parce que ce serait...décevant. Décevant, Richard," she repeats, her smile shining in her tone.

"Me? *You're* indecent. And sexy, and wearing my shirt, Kate. I need-"

He shakes his head and opens his eyes, but it's just the dark halo of her hair, the warmth of her cheek close to his. He grips her hipbones tighter and hopes he leaves bruises in the shape of his thumbs, hopes for it because it will be a mark, a lasting testament to this - whatever this is -

"Castle?"

A shiver runs right through him, trembles down his legs and out of his feet, the whole room trembling, quivering like a reflection in a pond-

"Castle!"

He snaps awake, cold and brutal, the vertebrae in his neck screaming against the brusque movement. Kate is in front of him still, but instead of his dorky, sexy shirt, she's wearing a sober white blouse, her hair pulled up in a messy bun. And instead of that laughing smile, instead of those twinkling eyes, he get a raised eyebrow, an impatient look.

Oh. Was he sleeping?

Of course. It's the only possible explanation. But the image of French, sexy Kate lingers in front of him, sticks to his pupils, and he gives her a desolate look, absolutely heartbroken at having to let her go.

"I *told* you to go, Castle," real-life Kate points out at him, sounding weary. "I don't need you falling asleep on me while I do paperwork. It's boring enough as it is. You snoring next to me? Doesn't help."

"I don't snore," he shoots back immediately, his brain sluggish, trying to catch up.

"Whatever," she says, rolling her eyes as she gets up and grabs her cup. "Menteur," she whispers under her breath.

"What did you say?" Castle exclaims before he can help it, his eyes widening. Kate slowly turns to him, the look in her eyes clearly questioning his mental health.

"Was that - was that French?" He stammers excitedly, managing to keep himself from jumping up and down.

Her brow furrows. "So?" She asks. "What if it was? I can't see what's so exciting about being called a liar."

He cannot explain, of course, not without making an even bigger fool of himself, and he simply watches her walk away, the graceful sway of her hips, the dip of her shoulders.

Kate Beckett can speak French.


	2. Chapter 2

Kate stands in front of the murder board with the marker in her hand, tapping it against her cheek, her lip caught between her teeth. There's something here. She can almost taste it. The thing hovers just out of her grasp, a wisp of fog drifting across the highway of her mental map.

Something here. To crack this case wide open.

She slowly puts the marker down, crosses her arms to study the board.

Where's Castle when she needs him?

At that moment, she feels a hand at her hip, shockingly intimate in the busy daylight of the bullpen.

"Ti ho mancato?" A voice whispers at her ear, husky and seductive.

Kate spins around, which conveniently sends his hand flying (it has no business being on her body, warm and inviting. No business at all). Of course, she knows the face that goes with that voice, so Castle and his crinkling blue eyes aren't really a surprise.

What is a surprise, however, is...

"Was that Italian?" She asks disbelievingly, even though she has no reason to believe Castle sucks at languages.

She just never thought...

"Si," he answers with a lopsided smile. "Si, donna bella. Ti piace?"

Oh, that's *hot*.

Is it summer in here? Kate wants to wave the file folder in front of her flushed cheeks, but instead she just blinks at him, the wide delight on his face somehow incongruous with his voice.

No man should look so boyishly appealing and sound so seductive. It can't be legal.

Italian? "Castle. I - I don't know Italian." Her voice did *not* crack. Did it? No. She's fine. She's under control. She is also *not* breathless.

It's just so damn hot in here.

Kate takes another step back, glancing over her shoulder to the murder board, trying to reclaim her focus. She takes a deep breath.

"Davvero? E un problema," he says, his grin widening. He steps closer, which is annoying and arousing at once, because her mind and her body are sending her very mixed signals. She should walk away before she's stuck between him and the murder board, really she should - this is the precinct after all, not some sort of... Language class.

Her lips are dry; even moistening them with her tongue doesn't work as she hoped it would.

It backfires, in fact: Castle's eyes fixate on her mouth, darken.

"Non sai come sexy sei," he breathes out, the words a deep, appealing rumble.

Damn him. Yes, he's sexy. Oh, _help_.

She takes another step away from him, but now she's against the murder board, palms back; she can feel the marker smear under her fingertips. Not good. The board isn't stable; she can feel it tilt even as she leans back.

He raises his hand between them, his finger brushing down her nose, skimming her lips, down her throat to rest in the hollow of her collarbone. Her heart pounds. She has trouble remembering who she is, why she is here.

The file drops from her nerveless fingers, scattering across the floor.

Castle's eyes laugh at her, damn him. He slowly, slowly bends to pick up the file, putting the sheets of paper back together, still firmly holding her gaze. "Non sei maldestra, di solito, Kate."

Bastard. Her first name, really? Like he needs her first name when this string of musical, rippling words is coming out of his mouth. He could be insulting her, for all she knows. Not very likely, and not her first concern, anyway.

Her first concern is to breathe.

The writer steps away to drop the file on her desk, and Kate uses the time to suck in some air, finds that the issue is not so much the lack of oxygen in the bullpen as the absence of space in her lungs.

Castle turns back to her and considers her, smiling. "Che bella," he comments, warm, looking too sincere for his own good.

Oh, that's gorgeous.

She doesn't know what's wrong with her, why her lungs won't function, why her knees are locked, why every time his voice so much as whispers, she wants to do some very terrible, dirty things to him.

She lifts a hand and pushes back her hair, chagrined to find her fingers trembling. She takes a small step away from the murder board, trying to get back on her own two feet, but suddenly Rick is right there-

Rick?

Oh no. No.

Stop right there, Kate Beckett-

He slides his hand to her waist, wraps his fingers around her hip, hanging on. She'd be grateful for the added support if the very touch of his skin wasn't making her so dizzy.

And then his other hand wraps around her other hip, forming a circuit between his fingers spanning her waist, flooding her belly with convulsive electricity. She can't move. Can't breathe. Delicious, hot energy concentrates in his warm hands as they brand her skin.

He tugs her against him, his hands anchoring her hips to his.

"Kate," he murmurs, and she closes her eyes against it, the strange, powerful attraction of her name with those hints of foreignness. It's a struggle, a struggle not to lean in and press her forehead to his neck, not to surrender.

Are they still at the precinct? She's not sure. It's all a blur, whether it's her mind or her surroundings; Castle is taking over, bending reality to his will, rewriting it with those words that she can't understand. She can't even tell what reality is anymore.

"Renditi," he commands, his voice imperious while still smiling. "Chiudi i tuoi occhi, Kate."

Yes. Anything. Yes.

So long as he keeps talking.

Instead, his nose brushes her cheek, his breath hot against her skin, his hands making magic at her hips. She can't move, but she can't move away either. Entranced by the anticipation of what comes next.

A soft scratch of his cheek at her jaw, his lips to her ear.

Anything. Just say it.

"Beckett?"

Kate moans, shakes her head. It's like the irritating buzz of a fly at her ear, trying to lure her into consciousness. Her last name sounds too rough against the softness of her dream. No. She wants more touching, she wants more -

"Kate."

Yes. That's what she wants.

Her eyes open then, slowly focusing on her surroundings as she winces against the soreness in her muscles. Oh, god. The break room couch definitely needs replacement.

Break room couch. Ah. She fell asleep. That explains the...Italian Castle thing.

She feels her cheeks flame at the memory - thank god, it's dark in here (almost six already?) and Castle probably can't tell. Or maybe he can. She involuntarily meets his interested gaze, notices the way his lips are curled up, his eyebrow arched in an unspoken question.

"Sweet dreams?" He inquires, amusement dancing in his voice.

At least he's back to English. Small favors.

"I can't remember," Kate lies easily. "Oh, wait. I do. I chased this suspect for our case and got a confession out of him in less than ten minutes. Does that count as sweet?"

Without waiting for his answer, she propels herself up, sways a little because her heels today are extra high. Castle's hand is at her elbow in an instant, steadying her; she yanks her arm away, still unbalanced by her dream. She's not up to the touching. Not now.

A look of surprise crosses the writer's face, but too soon it's replaced with understanding. Can he read her mind, or what?

"Sure that dream was about a suspect?" He asks with feigned innocence.

"You know, Castle?" Kate shoots back, turning away to glance at the bull pen, locating the rest of her team. "I liked you better when you spoke Italian."


	3. Chapter 3

Her apartment isn't particularly well-lit this evening, but he thinks that's because she's kept the windows tightly shuttered and the lamps off, like she's creating an ambiance to come home to each night. He's managed to claim all of her couch while she sits in the floor, reports strewn around her, the remainders of their hastily eaten takeout Chinese stacked up, and a few bags of evidence from Lanie in neat rows on the coffee table.

Castle isn't really thinking about the case anymore, but neither is he quite ignoring her. So he's not surprised when she rolls her neck and stands up to stretch, raising both arms over her head and extending like a cat, exposing a thin tease of skin along her waist.

But when Kate moves to the couch where he's sprawled, puts her knee on the cushion by his hip, when she leans over him, a hand braced on the back of the couch, her hair falling forward and trailing over his chest-

Yeah. He's surprised.

"Fatigué, Castle?" She asks with a tender smile.

Tender. His heart trips, misses a few beats. He's so taken with the soft light in her eyes that he almost fails to notice that she's speaking French again.

"What?" He asks mechanically, more interested in the glimpse of tongue that he gets between her parted, smiling lips than in the meaning of whatever it was she just said.

She looks gleeful when faced with his ignorance: she almost sparkles, her laughter everywhere but in the air between them. Kate trails a light hand from the corner of his left eye to the corner of his mouth, and he has to refrain from trapping that wandering index finger with his teeth.

"Je demande si tu es fatigué," she repeats more slowly, dark eyes shimmering.

"Yeah, yeah, we've done this before," he murmurs, but his mouth curves into a smile anyway. "Just keep talking. I'll catch every tenth word."

Castle lifts both hands to trap her waist, tugging her down on top of him, ready to let this play out however she likes, but wanting, needing more than teasing looks and playful gleams in her eye.

Her knee slips between his legs as she falls into him, and her face flushes, as if she wasn't expecting that. "Where else did you think this was going, Kate?"

She bites her lip - delicious, delicious lip that he wants to be the one licking and teasing - and looks at him from under the thick, dark curtain of her eyelashes.

"Je ne sais pas," she says, low and throaty, and the words trigger the faint haze of memory in his brain, like he's heard them before, like he once knew their meaning.

But Kate's eyes slide shut and she leans into him, her forehead gently meeting his shoulder. He shivers at the light touch, and she feels it, lets out a raspy, single note of laughter.

"Castle," she starts, and then she seems to catch herself. Her eyes open again, give him a surprised look that he is not sure what to ascribe to. "Rick," she says, the word rolling off her tongue like she's trying it, tasting it. Like it's the first time.

He knows it's not, of course, but still. It gets to him. And maybe "gets to him" is a euphemism for the frisson of pleasure that courses through his body, the river of delight pouring through his veins.

"Richard," she concludes, pronouncing it the French way, and man, he's just about undone.

Kate looks pleased with herself; her face wears that sexy little half-smile that he loves. "Toujours vivant?" She asks - teases, really.

"Yes, yes," he answers, even though he has no idea what those words mean, or even how many words that was, only that her voice went up at the end like a question, like a question he's always wanted her to ask.

He uses leverage to lift his hips under her, making her bow towards him on a tremulous gasp, her hair spilling over her shoulder to curtain them, dark and alluring.

"This is where we should be," he murmurs, not sure what he's saying, only that he can't shut up, can't stop. Castle lifts his head, brushes his mouth across her cheekbone, the sharp edge of her parted smile, watches her eyes as she looks down at him.

"Là où nous devrions être?" She says, an eyebrow arching slightly. It's not her interrogation look though, but something else entirely, an awakening, like searching his face has brought her unexpected understanding. And then her concentration shatters, gives way to amusement, to that child-like enjoyment he so rarely sees on her. "Le canapé, Castle? Vraiment?"

He's still clueless, but he's not dazed at all, and he *is* perfectly aware of the fact that her hand has slid under his shirt, is now slowly caressing his side.

"Je ne pensais pas que c'était ton fantasme préféré," she murmurs laughingly, her mouth brushing with his as she does.

He doesn't think it's an accident.

"Yeah, this is my fantasy right here," he murmurs, nipping at her bottom lip.

Castle lets his hands slide under her shirt (she started it), resting against her hips. He strokes his thumbs along the outline of her bone, the smooth soft skin like a jolt of electricity. She arches her back, bringing her mouth away from his but their hips closer.

"Not-uh, come back here," he growls, sliding a hand up to capture her, fingers around the back of her neck, palm against her cheek. Something blazes in her eyes as she lets him pull her back down, inexorably drawing her closer to where he wants her.

But right when his eyes slide shut, right when he has her, so close that she can't possibly pull away, so close that his lips are quivering with the closeness of hers, she shifts and his mouth lands on her cheek instead.

Tease. He opens his eyes in discontent - half-hearted discontent, of course, since his body is humming happily at the way hers is melting into him - and narrows them to threatening slits.

Kate is watching him, want etched in every line of her face, the pouting mouth, the half-closed eyelids, the dark tumble of her hair on her shoulders. Even then, she's still exuding that confidence, that nonchalant, daring grace he's loved from day one.

"Il faut demander gentiment, Richard," she breathes out, taunting, and it leaves no doubt in him that she's issuing some sort of condition. Some kind of test.

In French. How is he supposed to pass a test when he can't even understand the language?

Frustration bubbles through him, but he squeezes the nape of her neck, gathers deep breaths so that he can feel her move with the expanding of his chest.

He debates just begging her for it, but something in her challenge asks for a challenge back, not surrender. Castle brushes his thumb against her cheek bone, lifts his other hand further up her back, his movement pulling at her shirt.

"It's not enough, Kate. It'll never be enough."

He lifts his head and claims her mouth.

She hums into his kiss, all thoughts of challenge forgotten it seems, as she takes him inside, her tongue greeting his joyfully. And oh, he's joyful too, he's ecstatic, elated, euphoric - why the hell have they never done this before?

It's amazing, amazing: a sea of sensations drowning out his mind, leaving only the sharp spike of his awareness to surface every once in a while: when her fingers bury in his hair, nails grazing the back of his skull; when her tongue does this dirty trick that leaves him completely helpless, his body an unlocked house open for pillage; when she shifts to grind her hips against his, and his head falls back, his mouth rounded in a soundless gasp, oh Kate_, Kate_ -

"Castle?"

Kate.

It's a struggle to breathe, but he recognizes, slowly, that the face over his is not the same face, it's Beckett not Kate, and that despite this, she does have her hand in his hair, her thumb at his temple.

"Castle, you ok?"

He's on her couch. He must have fallen asleep while she was caught up in the case spread all over the floor and-

"Yeah," he grunts, his voice raw. He can still feel the lick of awareness in his body, especially as she leans over him, her hip against his chest, perched as she is on the side of the couch.

"Bad dream?" she murmurs, knowingly, her Beckett eyes dissolving a little, her hand sliding out of his hair, down his face to land on his chest, fingertips and wrist live points of contact.

He closes his eyes, not to recapture the dream but to banish it, unhook its claws from his chest. "Not. No. Too good," he mutters.

Her hand on his chest flattens with surprise; he opens his eyes, panic seeping through the haze of dream-memory.

"Did I say that out loud?"

Kate leans in, so very close, her mouth the only focal point for his eyes.

"I'm gonna do you a favor, Castle."

"Yeah?" His voice did not just squeak.

"I'm gonna forget you said that."


	4. Chapter 4

Kate Beckett stretches in her chair at Castle's table, tries to work the kink out of her back. It's late and he's running his mouth about gift baskets to the top contributors, but her vision is swimming. She runs a hand through her hair, props her elbow on the table to look at him.

He's still been planning her mother's charity event, all this time, through everything. And that's. . .sweet.

She really should thank him for that. She just doesn't know how.

Her eyes are dry from exhaustion: double homicide in Central Park, a grueling canvas of the victims' neighbors, background checks, running down suspects, all kinds of exacting paperwork. It's over, and while she wanted to go home and sleep for twelve hours, she couldn't resist Castle's invitation for dinner at his loft.

Now that she's full, and some of the details have been ironed out, she can't keep her eyes open.

"Kate?"

Ah, does he need her to make an answer of some kind?

She tries to focus on his blue eyes, on the ripples his smile makes at the corners of his mouth. She'd lift a hand to brush over them, if every inch of her body didn't feel so damn heavy.

"Ti sei già adormentata?" He asks mischievously, the words rolling off him like a song, like a poem. His deep rumble like deliciously warm water, washing over her skin.

Italian again, really? She's not even sure she can deal with English tonight. She closes her eyes, just for a moment. A second to catch herself, to remember why standing up, going over to where Castle is sitting, and settling on his lap is a bad idea.

The contact of gentle hands on her arms is what has her eyelids flying open again. Castle is tugging her up, lifting her to her feet, and guiding her to the couch. She's too startled to protest (also, the couch looks sinfully comfortable, compared to the chair she's just vacated).

She's ashamed to admit that she sags into the black cushions without even making an attempt at gracefulness. The writer gives her an amused glance, but he doesn't comment. He wavers for an extra second, towering above her - she likes that he is so tall - before he finally makes his choice, settles right next to her.

Good.

He must read approval, somewhere on her face; his lips part with that boyish grin that warms her heart. His eyes, however, are soft, resting on her like a caress.

"Hai il diritto a essere stanca, lo sai."

She has no idea what he's said, but suddenly her lethargy is sliding right out of her, a breathless awareness starting in the places where their bodies touch.

His thigh to hers. His shoulder to hers. His fingertips stroking the top of her knee so that his long arm presses against her as well, elbow nudging her hip bone, the back of his arm brushing her breast.

She closes her eyes as the currents travel along her skin, penetrate to her bones. What happened to planning the charity event? What happened to sitting at the kitchen table with a respectable distance between them?

"Castle?"

She winces at the sound of her own arousal, then flinches when his fingers trail up her thigh, too light, not enough, too much.

"Castle. I thought we - I don't think we should do this."

He doesn't answer, his eyes on her thigh, absorbed by the movements of his own fingers, it seems. Up, and down, and up again. Random circles, mysterious signs that Kate wants to know the meaning of.

After a second she's hypnotized as well, like Mowgli from the Jungle Book (the Disney movie. She's tried Kipling, but he's definitely not her favorite author). His hand dances, light but poised, confident, and her own fingers yearn to do the same.

But no. She makes a fist, then thinks better of it, unfolds her hand and tucks it between her thigh and the couch. There.

He's stopped moving, she realizes belatedly. His palm now rests against her jeans, his warmth tingling even through the rough material. And he's... Ah. He's looking at her.

His intense gaze traps her, roots her to the spot, finishing what his fingers have started.

"Sei molto bella, Kate," he murmurs.

Her hand draws up out of its own accord, brushes across his cheek, the rough edge of his jaw, the words echoing in her body like a bell has been struck, the reverberations making her bones sing.

Beautiful. Such. . .

She leans in and lets her lips caress his, soft and hesitant, growing confident as he moves into it, her fingers curling around his ear, her heart rattling and rattled.

Oh, it's like a dream, his mouth just right, finding the place under her jaw that makes the arch of her foot draw up, her belly clench. A beautiful dream, his fingers at her thigh moving to her waist, pulling her towards him.

What the hell. She wants this, needs it.

She slides her knee across his legs and straddles him, flushed, breathless, her chest rising and falling into his.

He breaks from her to pierce her with a look so penetrating she feels her muscles contract deep, intense, hard.

And yet she doesn't look away.

"Sono inamorato di te," he says, his eyes grave, solemn, but the line of his mouth twitching, betraying his relief, his...joy. Yes, that's what it is, little sparkles of joy lighting up his face, the face she once peered at curiously on the back of a book jacket.

That face she's come to love. And this is what he's saying, right? Amor. Love. Amour, in French. She doesn't know the other words, but she does recognize the root of this one.

She unleashes her smile, lets it bloom, take all the room for once, before she slowly leans back into him, brushes his nose with hers, hides her face against his neck. She should say something, she really should, but the words won't come.

They're stuck somewhere inside, deep, unreachable. Maybe it's not such a bad thing; she's not sure she has words for this, his arms tight around her, his mouth warm and reverent at her ear, his pounding heart that echoes hers. She's not sure she *wants* words for this.

"Castle," she whispers, grateful and awed and aroused, and the responsive growl she gets tells her that it's enough.

She moves to take his mouth but finds his already there, demanding and insistent, a battle for supremacy she'll gladly lose, joyfully win, either way. His hands slide up her back, his fingers running against her spine like a kid obsessed with the bars in the railing, over and over, making her draw up in need, arched and taut.

He bows her back down to his meet his mouth; she curls around the arrow of his body, the blood rushing under her skin, hot and feral.

His fingers move to her ribs, his thumbs stroking her stomach under her shirt, and she wants more. Needs more.

"Castle. Get this off."

And she lifts up to let him at her, swings her hips off his, pulling against the clutch of his fingers so she has room to divest herself of everything between them.

But something shifts - he's too gentle now, hands brushing against her, not doing anything to help with her shirt or any other item of clothing.

What's wrong?

"Kate."

His voice sounds off as well. Instead of those husky, breathless tones, instead of the delicious Italian accent, there's concern, detached amusement. What -?

"I doubt sleeping on my table is the best thing for your back, or that lovely neck of yours."

Sleeping. Ugh. _Again_?

Kate cracks an eye open, flinches at the light, though it's not exceptionally bright. Her dream lingers, a haze of lovely, lustful impressions, and it's hard to separate the Italian Castle with his demanding lips from the Castle who's standing at her side, his eyes and his hands tender.

Hands? His hands at her waist.

"What are you doing?" she asks, careful not to slur the words. She is, however, unable to suppress those last traces of arousal from her voice. Maybe she can pass it off as disapproval.

Maybe not. Something dark and untamed crosses his eyes, but he quickly masters it, gathers a smile instead.

"I was *trying* to get you into bed without waking you, but you seemed to have other ideas."

Other -

Oh god. Oh god. Did she...? She tries to remember the dream, but the vivid images are fading now, dispersing too fast for her to piece it together, and she's left with the heat still pulsing inside her, the vague memory of his fingers caressing her ribs. No explanation. If she tried something with Castle in her sleep -

He reads her panic wrong, points out, a little indignant, "Not in my bed, of course. The guestroom."

Guestroom. Right. Okay. She tries to shake herself, but she feels heavy, sluggish, uncomfortably hot. And Castle's fingers are there, feathering her shoulder, her arm, her waist.

"Want me to carry you to bed?" He teases. She thinks she can hear a hint of eagerness behind the humor.

The answer's still no. His carrying her to bed, in the state she's in? *So* not a good idea. And it would _never_ be a good idea, she tells herself sternly. She shouldn't even consider it.

"I'll be fine," she assures him, stumbling to her feet. The heels. Why does she still have the heels on? Stupid, stupid heels.

She has to hold on to him now, her fingers clutching his forearm for balance as she awkwardly shakes the shoes off.

"You know, you can take my bed," he offers quietly. "Not so sure I want to see you try the stairs right now."

Mmmh. His bed. With him in it?

Oh, no. No no no. She has to get a grip on herself, forget about the stupid dream, about the blood singing in her veins. She lifts her eyes to his; the increased height difference turns her on. Then again, she thinks sarcastically, what doesn't tonight?

"Come on," he says, gently pushing her towards his bedroom, and she's only half-awake still, so she can't fight both him and herself. And right now, fighting herself seems more important. She curls her fingers at her sides, stills them, her feet dragging against the hardwood floor because she can't be bothered to lift them.

His room smells of him, not in a heady way, just...nice. And the large bed calls to her. She unbuttons her blouse, shrugs it off, one of the straps of her tank top sliding down her shoulder. She reaches for it, but Castle's hand is there already, warm and soft against her skin.

He puts the strap back in place; their eyes meet, linger.

Her mouth goes dry.

She wants -

Castle's lips are on her cheek before she can do anything, before she can let loose one of those primal instincts fighting hard in her belly. She can feel his breath, a little shallow, a little fast - in and out, and then he's stepping away. Already.

"Goodnight, Kate."

He leaves without waiting for an answer, leaves her standing there, her heart in her mouth, dizzy with need and half-fleshed desires.

He shuts the door softly and she closes her eyes, sucks in a deep breath to regain her equilibrium. She pulls off her jeans, stepping out of them on the way to his bed.

Her heart pounds again - _on the way to his bed _- and she slides between the sheets with a ragged sigh. Her body, still humming with leftover arousal, melts into the cool comfort of an obscenely high thread count, and her arms slip under his pillow, her nose inhaling the musky scent.

She burrows into the softness, the sinful luxury of his bed.

When she dreams tonight, she hopes it's in Italian.


	5. Chapter 5

Rick Castle can't bring himself to sleep in the guest room upstairs; he's not sure why.

He sleeps on the couch, in his jeans and tshirt, because it won't hurt him to sleep in his clothes, and maybe if he's out here, he can catch her before she sneaks out.

Because she's sure to sneak out, right? This is Kate after all. As soon as she gets a few hours of sleep, she'll be rested enough to start thinking clearly again and she'll be out the door.

He wants to intercept her. He just doesn't know why.

Maybe it has something to do with the way she said his name right before she woke, the throaty moan at the back of it, the way her eyes, when they opened, seemed to be looking at more than was there.

Maybe it's just a combination of the last few weeks and the things he's been dreaming every time his head hits the pillow.

All about Kate.

Just. . .maybe it's just Kate.

He likes dreaming about Kate.

He's walking in Central Park; at least, he thinks it's Central Park. The autumn leaves are twirling around, the wind playing with them, pretending to toss one at Castle's face and then rerouting it at the last second. It all seems so familiar, even the fountain that has absolutely no business being here, even the houses he gets glimpses of between the trees, that look more European than American.

None of this really bothers him. The sky is blue, the air crisp, and he's holding Kate's hand.

Which feels natural. Right.

Her fingers curled around his, the soft pressure of her warm palm. He smiles, smiles at her, delighted to find her here. He doesn't know where they're going, where here is, doesn't have the slightest idea what they're doing, but it must be okay, if she's holding his hand.

"Pourquoi tu souris?" She asks, the ghost of a smile on her face, shining in her dark green eyes.

"Is this your dream or mine?" he murmurs, lacing their fingers together, bringing her closer with a tug.

Her hip bumps his, her thumb smoothing the back of his hand. He brings their joined hands up to his lips, brushes a soft, barely-there kiss over her skin.

"So. This doesn't exactly look like Central Park. Where are we going, Kate?"

When he glances over at her, the amusement in her eyes lights into him like quicksilver. He has to catch his breath, stumbles to a stop. Kate turns toward him, her lips parted and shiny. He wants to taste them. He wants to lick her bottom lip and bring it into his mouth and nibble at it, tender and ripe.

He loves these dreams. So long as she's speaking French, she's got his full attention.

Well. To be honest, he can't remember the last time he didn't give Kate Beckett his full attention. If there ever was such a time.

"C'est un secret," she answers, her mouth curving in this cute grin that lets him see a flicker of red tongue. She sounds elated, giddy, completely unlike herself. A little girl with a secret to protect, clutching her diary to her chest, teasing laughter ready to spill.

He can't help but step forward, mesmerized, fascinated. He wants to kiss her, to hold her, to tell her -

Kate eludes him, escapes with a giggle - a giggle! - and runs ahead, stopping at the next bench to glance back at him, her eyes bright, her mouth half-open, an invitation. It pulls him towards her more surely than a leash would.

His beautiful, mysterious Kate, multi-faceted like one of those gorgeous prisms that diffract the light, put the colors back into the world.

He catches up with her, surprised that she's waited at all, astonished when she actually offers a hand for him to take.

"Tu me fais confiance?" she asks, smiling even though there is deadly seriousness in her gaze.

Is she. . .what is she asking him? That can't be what he thinks it is. It's his brain jumping to conclusions, because he was thinking about precious gems and thinking about her giggle and thinking about her walking down an aisle made of autumn leaves and thinking-

Too much.

He's thinking too much. Dream Kate can do anything she likes. He'll go right along with it. No consequences.

Their hands still clasped, she lowers herself demurely to the park bench and beckons for him to join her. His heart pounds and suddenly, without moving his feet, Rick is lying on the bench with his head in her lap, his eyes staring into the dark and lush nimbus of her hair, the bright moon of her face.

He needs to touch her, needs his mouth on hers-

Either she's read his mind or her thoughts have followed a parallel path to his own: she bends her head, brings her lips to his, soft and giving and melting into him.

He takes it, whatever she has to offer and more, slides his tongue out to caress hers, the kiss languid, luxurious, spreading like moist heat in a rainforest.

Kate.

Her hand is on his nape, her fingers gently massaging the back of his neck, the soft baby hairs, and it's all too much, too good. He lays a palm on her cheek, brushes his thumb across her cheekbone - he *loves* her cheekbones - before pushing her back gently, just enough so he can catch her gaze.

Her eyes are large and dark, so dark that it knocks the breath out of him. He had something to say. Ah, what was it? Now all he can think of is how much he wants to yank her back down, devastate her with his mouth, press her into him.

"Qu'est-ce qu'il y a, Castle?" She asks, a little intrigued and a lot annoyed, it seems.

"Give me a second," he breathes, and even though he wants to take her mouth, take everything she offers, he wants first to burn this image into his memory forever.

Her eyes narrow at him, but she gives him time. It's hardly enough, not when her hand slides down his chest, skating over his sternum, over his stomach, her fingers dipping below his waistband, soft and hot and heart-poundingly amazing.

When her fingers curl, he jerks up, reaching for her, half sitting as he plunders her mouth again, his hands trapping her, holding her captive to him even as she folds around him, her hand sliding around his waist to his back, her fingers at his spine.

Except he's not on the bench anymore, but on his own couch, in his own living room. Gone are the red and orange leaves, the bright blue sky, the chilly October wind. The only thing that remains...

The only thing that remains is Kate in his arms, her mouth opening under his, her grip tightening as she breathes heavily, hot and shallow around his lips. Is this - he's still dreaming, right?

This happens in dreams, the sudden change of scenery, the no explanation thing, like it doesn't need to look real. It's...quite common. He's a little taken aback, though, and she must feel it because she lets go of him for a moment, whispers something urgent against his lips in French, "tu ne rêves pas," whatever those sounds mean.

Relief pours into him, the warmth of it pounding in his veins, because even though he *would* (he really would) like for this to be real, he also doesn't want his dream to be over. It's a much too wonderful dream for him to give it up that easily. And Dream Kate speaks sexy-hot French.

This is a dream. So he can keep on kissing her, as long as he likes.

He can even slide his fingers to the hem of her shirt, inch it slowly up until his hands brush her skin. He can smirk at the shudder that rolls through her body when his thumb brushes the underside of her breast. He can-

She gasps and darts back, her eyes heavy-lidded, and heat radiating from her skin. She touches her tongue to her top lip, as if surprised, and he follows it with his thumb, watching her arousal shimmer across her body.

"Even in a dream, you tease," he whispers, leaning in to take her mouth again.

Before he can reach her lips, she's got a hand at his chest to stop him, something shifting in her eyes.

"Castle? Why. . .why aren't you speaking Italian?"

Italian? What -? Why on earth would he be speaking Italian?

Even as his hazy mind struggles with the idea, he feels a darker realization coming along, like a threatening cloud hovering over his head, out of reach and yet, so close. And then it hits him.

He understood that. He understood that, because she spoke in English. Oh. _Oh._

For some reason he can't fathom, can't even begin to grasp, Kate seems to be going through a similar process: her eyes widen, her mouth opens in shock, the hand on his chest flying to her lips. So beautiful.

He unconsciously leans toward her when she takes away the only thing stopping him, drawn to her like a magnet, like a star to a black hole. His own fingers are still on her side, the soft, supple skin of her waist almost burning under his touch. Even the sharp tug of reality can't make him break contact.

It's not a dream, then. Fine. But - can he kiss her anyway?

Oh, forget it. He's going to kiss her anyway, because even though she has one hand pressed to her mouth in shock, her other hand is at his thigh, pressed a little too close, as if she has no idea what she's doing.

He wraps his fingers around her wrist, sliding his thumb up the inside of her arm to her palm, brings her hand away. She doesn't resist him, just watches him in expectant horror.

Horror isn't great - it's not ideal - but it's not denial.

He expects her mouth to be hard, rigid against his, but her lips are soft from kissing him, pliant, easily molded to the shape of his. He darts his tongue to the seam of her lips and she opens under him, some exotic flower.

And then - and then she does something that even the French Kate of his dreams didn't do, something so hot and delicious that he wouldn't have dared dream of it: she breathes a soft sigh into his mouth, almost a moan. A hum of pleasure.

It echoes deep inside him, triggers an inordinate response, because he has to press her into him after that, has to topple her backwards until she's lying under him, trapped between the couch and his chest.

This sigh is surrender, means she's giving up. He'll be damned if he doesn't make the most of it.

And he's right; she doesn't resist, doesn't protest, lets him fall on her, and even wraps her arms around his neck. She brings his mouth back down to hers, a little aggressive, a little pushy. And boy, he loves that.

Loves the way her thighs accomodate his hips, her foot hooking around his calf and drawing up, all of her drawing up towards him. He kisses again, trying to recreate the right conditions for that breathy little moan, angling his head to draw deeper into the well of her mouth.

She shivers under him in an arch, her body taut and muscles rippling; she feels too good, so good, and it slowly dawns on him that they are on his couch - _his couch_ - both fully clothed and panting into each other. She gasps and bites down on his jaw, making his hips grind into hers entirely without his permission, entirely too good, entirely not right.

With wakefulness comes awareness, and his conscience, and the understanding between them lately that this year is a waiting game. Waiting for her. He's supposed to be biding his time, being patient.

This isn't patient.

He breaks from her hot mouth, her gasping mouth, and lays his forehead against her cheek, closing his eyes on a groan.

He thinks maybe, maybe, if he can't see her, it'll be easier. Rookie mistake. Closing his eyes means focusing on her ragged exhales right next to his ear, focusing on all the ways he can feel her body, her hot, trembling body, calling to him.

Still. Castle has some self-control, and he's painfully aware that there will never be a better time to exert it. He waits, counts his breaths, the confused thuds of his heart, and wonders why Kate has gone still and silent against him.

He would understand her pushing him away (he sort of expects that); he would understand her trying to get back to...whatever it was they were doing (although there's little chance of that happening). This immobile, quiet Kate is somewhat disturbing for his already troubled mind.

He should probably get off her. Maybe she's waiting for him to do that? Castle braces himself, cannot help lingering one more second, surrounded by her warmth, the wonderful press of her slim, aroused body into his. And then, when his courage is almost gathered, when he's about to lift himself up, let her go, he feels her lips brush against his cheek.

Once, twice, three times. Each kiss is more intent than the previous one, lasts longer, gets closer to the corner of his mouth. Oh, he should do something about it, but it's all he can do to keep from moving, from grinding back into her, taking her teasing lips.

"Kate," he growls, warns, and this consumes the last of his willpower, a supreme effort that leaves him helpless. Defenseless against her next words.

"Don't stop," she murmurs, her voice raw and tender, all the things they have and haven't said suspended in the air above them.

Oh, shit.

He wants her. Fast. Slow. Now. Tomorrow. All of it. Only-

"Not. . .here," he gasps out, her teeth against his jaw.

Rick pushes up, his elbows locked, but it drives his hips into hers and they moan, in stereo, the sound too loud, too great, her eyes fluttering closed.

Oh jeez. He can't-

She slides out from under him in that moment when his own eyes slip shut, her body sinuous against his, her arms around his neck so that he bears her weight for just an instant as she moves.

He manages to stand up without collapsing, a superhuman feat, and sees her waiting for him, her eyes dark and unreadable. When he takes in a deep breath to ask if this is truly what she wants, she slides her hand into his and turns her back, tugging him towards his bedroom.

Kate is taking him back to his own bedroom.

Kate.


	6. Chapter 6

Kate isn't sure what's possessing her, what this pounding, dangerous feeling running in her veins is; but somehow it's stronger than her doubts, her misgivings. It's something that has been building inside her for the last three years, a beast that gained strength and now demands to be let out.

Castle's hand is warm against hers, his palm a little sweaty, and she can hear his startled intake of air when she starts guiding him back to the bedroom, like he can't quite believe that it's happening.

.

-and he can't believe this is happening. Kate nudges him into the room and he slowly runs out of speed in the middle of the floor, his heart pounding so loudly he can't hear his own ragged breathing. He wants to ask if she's sure, certain, but his throat closes up.

He can't ask; he won't. He wants this too bad, badly enough to be selfish and take whatever she's giving tonight. For however long she gives it. It will end sooner than he likes; he knows this. It will end and he'll have to figure out how to live with less. But for now-

.

She lets go of him to close the door behind them, leans into it briefly, for strength, for courage – or maybe just to keep herself from lunging at him. Her mind is swarming with thoughts and questions and emotions, none of them lingering long enough for her to identify them; but it all goes quiet when she turns to Castle.

He's looking at her expectantly, concern etched on his face like he's afraid to hope, and Kate finds her mouth dry, her tongue a dead thing in her mouth. She can't tell if it comes from waiting too long, or not waiting long enough; the solemnity of the moment weighs on her, steals her words before they can come to life.

.

-quiet. A terrible stillness in her eyes that scares him. She'll change her mind now, she'll back away from him. He'll see the rejection in her face again, just like it was when she told him not to call this summer.

He needs to figure out a way to survive her. If it keeps going on like this, with these small steps forward and giant leaps back, he's not going to make it. There has to be a way to kiss her and forget, a way to take her into himself and let her go at the same time.

What he needs, what he wants, is to-

.

"Take off your shirt," she says at last, not even caring that she sounds breathless.

She has to do something, has to keep them from sinking any deeper into that silence, the dark, icy depths of it.

.

-oh God, she . . .

Here she is. Still here. And she wants his shirt off.

Anything you want, Kate-

.

She loves catching the glimpse of wild arousal that surges in his blue eyes as he stares into her, then slowly complies. Her heart is doing a trapeze number, swinging restlessly and crashing against her ribs at regular intervals, but Kate doesn't even consider walking out on him.

She watches - can't do anything else but watch, really - as he reveals his broad chest, the skin a little darker than she'd have expected (consequence of his summer in the Hamptons?), the smooth lines of his abs.

.

-yeah, slowly. Just like that. He's in awe of the way her tongue touches her top lip, unconsciously, the way her eyes flare. She's devouring him with a look, hot and heavy as he slowly tugs his shirt from his head, shaking the hair out of his eyes to watch her, his heart stuttering-

.

The shirt ends up on the floor, and before she even knows it, Kate is moving, anxious to press her lips to his heart, to listen to its steady beat, drink in his warmth.

Castle doesn't move, lets her kiss his chest, gentle but more and more purposeful as she goes, gets down on one knee to flick her tongue at his navel. He shivers, hard, the hand that he's been resting at her neck clutching around her hair. Even then, she can feel his resolve, his determination not to push her, the same thing that she felt back on the couch, when he stopped kissing her.

When he tried to step back. For her sake.

If she needed any more proof of the strength of that man's love for her, she has it now. And it's more than time to do something about it.

.

-oh that mouth. He can't think. Can't. . .

Where is she going? N-n-no. Not tonight, now? Not. . .he'll never survive if she keeps going, if he doesn't get to her first, make her as wild and thrumming and needy as she's making him-

.

He lifts her back on her feet, something dark dancing in his eyes, and she wonders where he thought she was going next. A smile curves her lips, a proud little grin that she cannot contain, entirely due to her shiny new knowledge of what she can do to him.

It's one thing to suspect it, a very different thing to *know* it.

"Your turn," he murmurs, his voice husky, too sexy for his own good.

She arches an eyebrow, and he nods at her shirt. Ah. Fair enough.

.

-off. Now. He needs to touch her, needs his hands against her skin. He has to master this urgency and tame it, make it as soft as her, make it good for her, so that she can't forget, can't deny it, can't do anything other than mewl and whimper for more.

He wants to make her cling, make her weak, make her love him-

.

In one swift move, she peels the tank top off her skin, trying to decide if she's glad that she's kept her bra on. It's dark, and simple, with only a bit of lace; but the look in Castle's eyes, ablaze, so intense, convinces her that it really doesn't matter.

.

-just too good. Ah, Kate.

He drops his hands. Navy scraps of material framing her body, holding her, an edge of lace that takes his breath away. He wants to map her skin, learn every valley and ridge, trace it out to the edges, come back for more.

He steps closer, drawn to the fire, his chest rising raggedly. He's determined to make this good, make it right. He's determined to slow this down and make it last, in case it has to last him as well-

.

They're standing so close. She thinks that she can feel the heat rolling off him, but maybe it comes from her own body - impossible to tell.

He tugs on her forearms, aligns her with him, their noses, their chests, their hips touching. He teases her, a touch of his lips, a touch of his tongue, refusing her his mouth when she tries to take it. She sees the teasing light on his face, the easy smile, and it only makes her long for his kiss, burn harder.

.

-last. He brushes his mouth lightly along the apple of her cheek, grazes her temple. He hovers over the beauty mark just below her eye, traces a line to the one below her cheekbone, angles for her jaw, circumnavigating the wide, yearning landscape of her face-

.

And then he does kiss her, hauntingly slow, a detailed exploration like he's taking the measurements of her mouth for some experiment. It itches inside her, the need to set fire to this, throw his care out the window, seek the passionate man she fell in love with. But she refrains, because she's also aware that this infuriatingly lazy pace is doing things to her.

Deep, dark things.

.

-lifitng his head, and he sees her eyes: feral, dark, fathomless. His stomach clenches, his hips jerk towards her; now, he needs her now-

.

When he finally loses the battle for control, and his teeth graze her lower lip in a renewed, unbridled assault, she wraps one of her legs around his, claws a hand at his back. If she's leaving marks, she doesn't care. It's proof, and commitment.

She will claim what's hers.

.

-the scrape of her fingers at his back, the lock of her leg as if to knock him down. He's good with that. He wants her all over him, wants to be over her, wants to do terrible, good, deep, lasting things to her. . .

The thudding of his heart brings the pulse of need to his mouth, rich and aware; she tastes like coffee and a dark night, she tastes like the way she smells, so so good.

He has to slow it down again, he *has* to control this. He needs to make this good, and right, and excruciating for her, so that she never wants him to stop-

.

When he breaks contact to feather her collarbone with kisses, run his tongue across the hollow of her neck, Kate moans, arches.

"Rick," she pants, and this absurd feeling of gratitude springs in her belly. Among other things.

He lifts his head to look at her; the arousal on his face must be mirroring hers. There are other things at play there, surprise, delight - things that melt her heart. He seems to be considering something.

.

-says his name. His name, and something secret in him wants more, wants to bring dreams to life, wants to make it flesh and blood and hot, liquid French, just to see, to check-

.

"Will you -" He starts, then stops, shakes his head like it's ridiculous.

"What?" She wants to know; she doesn't want him to think that she'd ever laugh at him. Not now, not here.

He shoots her this piercing glance, straightens his back.

"Will you say my name with a French accent?"

.

-not kidding here. But instead of her laughter, instead of a slap to the face (both of which he expected, honestly), Kate's dark eyes dilate with a level of arousal he's never seen before. Part playfulness, part hunger-

.

The request stuns her, has her gaping at him for a second.

A French accent?

But then awareness sneaks its way into her, stretches her lips into a pleased, knowing smile. That's his fantasy, huh? Kate Beckett speaking French? Is this what he dreams about?

"Richard," she breathes without thinking, drawing out the 'e' sound in the first syllable, letting the second one trail off, since the 'd' is silent. He is taut against her, immobile, barely breathing, as if he's trying to contain all the things he wants to do to her.

She doesn't want him to contain them.

"Richard," she says again, taunting, making sure her hot breath washes over his skin. The effort of holding back causes his biceps to tense; she sees that, brushes her lips to the hard line.

She loves that, without being muscle-man, he still keeps himself in shape. To fight crime at her side. Her sidekick. Her partner.

.

-ahhh, he's not gonna make it. He's not. . .

He should've saved this for later. Her voice, hot and teasing, the breath of her against his skin, the urge to take her, take her, not let her have a moment's peace tonight, just have her, all to himself. . .

He should've asked for this later, when he's certain, when it's daylight. Because now, there's this tiny voice in his head asking him if this isn't the dream itself, if this Kate in front of him is the fantasy, not the reality, and if that's true, he's not going to make it, he's not gonna survive being without her-

.

A tiny sound of need escapes his closed lips. This man.

"Rick," she murmurs, elated, so dizzy with it that she sways on her feet.

He catches her, clutches her to his chest, a little rough, a little panicked. Like she's going to vanish any second. She's not, she's not: she tries to tell him that, her mouth at his neck, and tightens her own hold on his waist.

.

-trembling like a frightened boy. But her arms are tight around him, her mouth brushing magic into his panic, like sprinkling fairy dust with her lips, making everything okay again. Making it good.

He cradles the back of her head with his palm and curls around the long lines of her body, this woman he loves, Kate Beckett-

.

"Castle," she sighs at last, coming full circle, his beloved name finding its natural way to her throat.

And then his mouth is on hers again, and this time there's nothing gentle about it.

.

-All of her-

.


End file.
